The well
by Emerald.Vert
Summary: AU inspired by a wonderful art. My try in rewriting some of the events in The Finale Problem.What was the truth, then and what was a horrid delusion of an overtired mind? What had happened? Johnlock


**A/N** :I would like thank my lovely beta, **brainlesssepticlock**. All mistake are mine.

The whole story was inspired by a wonderful art _:_ post/156488191826/this-is-the-part-they-didnt-show-you-in-the-final by sturfadurf on tumblr.

* * *

The last thing he remembered was seeing one of very few people dearest to him with a gun in the hand. With the barrel touching his chin. That sight made his heart sink, and for a split second it seemed to him that he was going to die. He wanted to scream, to wrestle that damned weapon from Sherlock's hand, before tragedy befell. He was unable to move a muscle, let alone respond.

But his heart was frantic as thoughts raced through his head. _God, don't leave me! Don't let me see you die again. You promised! I can't stand..._

Something stung him in the neck. He guessed that it was a hypnotic drug again. Which one, then, of the many he'd been given the last few hours? He heard Sherlock's voice faltering as he counted down the seconds to the shot. The fast-acting sedative ingredient caused him an unbearable feeling of unrealistic bliss. He fought to stay awake, but had no strength.

He was _not_ going to fall asleep! Not now, when Sherlock needed him most. He wanted to call out, but his voice failed him, and again he felt as if he was lying under a bonfire. Paralyzed, mute, helpless and completely defenceless. Deprived of even a _chance_ to defend.

The place spun sharply and he felt as if the ground had suddenly disappeared under his feet. Limp and unable to make a sound, he fell to the hard floor.

Even before his head hit the floor, he sunk into a viscous, overpowering and bittersweet darkness.

 **OoO**

Silence. Darkness. The fear is gone, nothing counts.

He feels hands lifting him and carrying him somewhere. He cannot defend himself. The steady hum of an engine growls a little louder. There is no strength in him, but he tries to gather any information, anything at all. He tries to stay conscious. A troubling feeling has returned to him, but he can't place it.

Something horrible could happen to a person dear to his heart. He has to fight.

The next, higher wave of darkness floods over him, and he's not able to remain above the surface anymore.

He's falling deeper and deeper. On the way to the bottom. He cannot get out on his own. Something tightens around his ankles and pulls.

 **OoO**

Cold. Biting cold made him open his eyes. He didn't know where he was, or what was going to happen. He didn't want to know. His next thought instantly gave him a paralyzing fear.

Sherlock!

Sherlock, who had stood in front of him, counting down the final seconds before the bullet entered his head. And he had watched, unable to stop him.

What happened? Where was he now? Did he pull the trigger?

What was wrong with him, that everyone he loved, everyone who _mattered_ , left him sooner or later?

For God's sake, why was he always left alone in the end?

Rosie... tiny, sweet Rosie. Delightful, screaming, little demon from hell. His baby girl. How he would like to see her once more and just hug her. Hear her babbling. Wait for her to kick him when least expected. Kiss and tickle her belly – Rosie had such a wonderful, radiant laughter. Was she really there?

Lately it had become hard for him to tell the difference between reality and his imagination.

The darkness made it difficult to understand where he was. It was also eerily quiet. The smell brought in few pleasant memories of his previous patrols, in which he participated as a physician and one of the best marksmen.

He leaned back and exhaled. He was tired, confused and angry, and he wanted out. He tried in vain to call for help, but no one heard him. He, in turn, realized that he was in an uncomfortably confined space with a rather high roof. He felt rough stone structure under his fingers.

Cold. Smelly. Damp.

Where the hell was he? Did he even have a chance to get out, or was he left here to die?

And John was only a broken toy that the great genius had tried in vain to fix. Subconsciously he knew that Mycroft had been lying, and was simply taunting Sherlock. Still, there was more evidence that he did not play psychological games, and was simply stating what he considered truth.

He could not stand idle and helpless. He tried to push away his worst suspicions, unfortunately to no avail. Without outside help, there was absolutely no chance of him getting out.

Is this how Sherlock felt when he asked him for help?

" _I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm still falling and... I'm_ never _climbing out._ Look _at me._ _Can't do it, not now. Not alone." *_

In that moment he was so abandoned, desperate and for first time, openly asking for help.

It was no longer just a game.

Then John realized how much he was needed. Although Sherlock's plan worked - forcing Smith to disclose his criminal intentions and catching that serial killer almost red-handed - it left much to be desired. If he knew what detective was really doing, maybe he could persuade him out of it once and for all. He had his own effective methods.

He felt worthless, as if he had failed Sherlock.

John opened his eyes, which had closed despite him resisting sleep. Did he actually fall asleep? What woke him?

Noise. The sound of a waterfall. Cold droplets splashing on him constantly.

Then suddenly he understood. _They wanted him to drown._ The whole time he was in the water, it had been at his mid-calf, but now it was rising at an alarming rate. Instinct and adrenaline pulled him out of a daze.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, lifting his head, trying to be heard over the noise of the water. "Damn it! Sherlock!"

Maybe if he tried climbing up, he could get out of here. The water was now at his waist and kept rising.

"John?! Where… you?"

John almost thought the muffled voice in his ear was merely a hallucination. He didn't understand why the communicator wasn't removed, but was also immensely grateful for it. Maybe they thought that he would not have time or reason to use it, or simply didn't bother checking.

The pressure of water falling on him decreased slightly. He could hear raised, angry voice of Sherlock Holmes:

"John! Tell me what you see!"

"It's too dark! Some old well or basement tank! Hurry, please! Get me out!"

There was silence. He leaned back against the wall, trying to figure something out, to facilitate the rescue, but he had nothing.

It was cold, and he could not feel his legs.

The water hadn't been this cold before. Now he was shivering, struggling with his own body, to climb and reach higher with numb fingers. Something jerked at his feet and he fell into the water, almost pulled all the way down.

Breathing hard, he stood back up against the wall and to his horror, realized something rather obvious.

He could not climb out on his own. At all. He was literally chained to the bottom of the pit.

He closed his eyes and breathed out a few times making a superhuman effort to simply remain calm.

"Sherlock?" He shouted into the darkness. "Take care of Rosie. You, and no one else, okay?"

"What? John?!" A note of panic appeared in the detective's voice. Quite a lot of panic, actually, but in these circumstances it was absolutely understandable. Quick, jerky breaths, accompanied by hurried footsteps, as if Sherlock was running. "I will find you. Do you hear me? I'll find you."

He smiled faintly and imagined that somewhere out there, the smartest man he has ever known, the most brilliant detective of all time, was hurrying to his rescue, and he would be out in no time. It gave him comfort, but he realized that he was imagining something impossible. Would Sherlock just throw him a rope for him to escape just like that? Would the heavy chain disappear and the shackles on his legs unlock as if by magic?

Ridiculous.

As if the world was that wonderfully simple.

The water had reached his chest. In this bloody cold he no longer felt any pain. Gradually it felt as if the icy water had become warmer. It was unrealistic, but John knew how dangerous hypothermia was, especially in his current position. He would drown anyway. Whether by going unconscious from the cold, or getting submerged under the water.

He did not know which was going to be worse.

Holding a stone wall, he raised himself as far as he could with a chain attached to his legs. It was not much, but it was something. A surface of water was slightly below the chest now, but inexorably rising. At least he gained time, or extended his agony. It depends on how you look at it.

He had to maintain his body temperature, at least until he couldn't anymore. He wasn't going to give up.

He wasn't allowed to give up.

He couldn't to say how long he had been trapped, just that it was for far too long than desirable.

He was afraid as hell.

He thought of Sherlock. He couldn't leave him. He was afraid to die. To leave those whom he cared for and disappear into nothingness, just like that.

He had seen too much death in Afghanistan. The violent deaths, among the bullets, fire and blood, and the quieter deaths, on the white hospital beds due to complications or aid that came just a little too late. Every one of them had been terrible.

Perhaps he should have died in those attacks, in that foreign land.

 **oOo**

He wasn't going to close his eyes. He wasn't. But he was too tired to struggle to keep his head above the surface. He couldn't afford to let go, the water level was too high. He had to reassure himself every moment that his hand grasped the stony wall.

Damned chains!

Who had put him here and why? It didn't make any sense! Yet he knew they were real, because he felt their pull every time he tried - and failed - to reach a little higher.

Over the sound of the water, he heard the cover above him being dragged away and the streak of light that filtered into the well nearly blinded him.

"John?!"

Had he not been so mentally and physically drained, he probably would have laughed. How could he have ever doubted that Sherlock would find him in time?

"I'm here! But I can't get out alone. I'm chained to the bottom..."

He thought that he had already accepted his fate, but saying those words to Sherlock still hurt, so much that he was unable to continue. He lifted his head, and saw a familiar silhouette leaning some two or three meters above him.

"I'm coming down to get you!"

He tried to protest, to warn about the water temperature, but he knew that tone. Idiot. _His_ idiot who would do anything to prove his point. And at that moment, to rescue his life. Once again.

He tilted his head slightly, leaning against the wall. The water had reached his chin. He had no idea whether his numb hand was still gripping the wall, whether the terrible moment had come where literally only a few centimetres was all that kept him from death.

After a while, a thick rope dropped down in front of him, and Sherlock slid down soon after. John looked at him in disbelief and fear.

He could not trust his own senses or memory. Too many events in his head didn't come together in the logical sequence of cause and effect. Too much he had to complete like a fictional story and sometimes he just didn't understand what was really happening.

Sherlock was saying something, but the John's mind suddenly couldn't comprehend words, only the timbre of Sherlock's voice.

"Rest, John."

Someone's arms wrapped around him and his cheek touched the cool wet material. It wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a hallucination.

"Sher..." he mumbled, trying to further reassure himself that he was not alone. He heard, or perhaps more _felt_ , a heartbeat. His head fell on something solid and surprisingly warm. Then came the smell, the familiar smell of Sherlock Holmes. Home.

"John! Don't fall asleep! Help is on its way. John?"

John simply sighed, and Sherlock embraced him a little tighter. John's doctor instincts kicked in and a quiet little voice in his mind told him that he could not let detective get hypothermia. That idiot had saved him and his outfit was completely unsuitable for this.

"You can't... out... I... okay..."

"Don't fall asleep and don't talk nonsense. You know how I hate that. Don't move, John."

His gentle tone and the worry etched on his face belied the sharp words.

He didn't know exactly when his hand, which was holding the wall, let go and now hung limply on the detective's arm. He looked at Sherlock's face and tried to smile, but it hurt.

Everything hurt.

"I won't ever let you go."

The next moment was so surreal that it could not really have happened.

A few people slid into the well, dressed in full diving gear and what looked like metal shears. It was as if the small, cramped space had closed in a little more, which only served to increase his anxiety.

He was so tired that he daydreamed about being able to sleep, but Sherlock effectively kept him awake. Soon, to his surprise, he lay bundled up in warm blankets and thermal foil.

And Sherlock Holmes never left his side, not even for a moment.

 **oOo**

He woke up in a warm, dry bed. Something next to him beeped softly. Confusion gave way after a few seconds. He was in a hospital. Understandable, after his… adventure.

What was the truth, then and what was him just being delusional? What had happened?

He didn't know anything anymore, but decided to wait for the situation to unfold. At the moment drugs made him tired and disoriented.

He forgot something.

He probably shouldn't have been surprised by the presence of Sherlock Holmes at his bedside, but he truly didn't expect it. The exact opposite had happened too many times. Way too many. He heard a quiet grunt. The detective's bright eyes stared straight at him, piercing him almost to the back of his head. His tired face brightened up into a sincere smile.

 _Why does my head hurt so much?_

Migraine? No.

"John!"

The detective's strong fingers grasped his hand gently and brushed the cool skin with his knuckles. Sherlock seemed suspiciously excited and relieved. Moved. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

John slowly looked at him and grimaced as he heard his own voice. He had been intubated for some time. His throat was sore and parched but he tried anyway:

"Who are you?" The detective's smile turned into an anxious frown, but then smiled lightly, hearing: "And what did you do with Sherlock Holmes?"

"John! Don't scare me like that. Ever again!"

He slowly turned his head toward the entrance.

* * *

*a transcription of TLD used in my story by amazing **arianedevere**


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